The days
and dots
that litter my sight make me happy.


Most people aren’t aware that I could be dead right now.

(Well, we could all be dead right now, but my case is a little different.
I won’t go into that. It’s mainly a sidebar for my own reassurance.)

Nonetheless, I often wonder where I would be
If my paintbrush didn’t float this way
or dart that?

What would my canvass look like?

I don’t want to know. Don’t tell me.
I like my painting in its present state.
I like my days and dots.

Friends

I fight an inner turmoil of my own mind. I really need to give it a rest, but can't. Like right now, I should go lay down on my bed and just lay there, but instead I feel compelled to fill this blog. I don't know why my mind won't shut down; why it won't leave me alone. It's as if my life were the sensation of thirst and the only beverage was syrup.

I think it is my few friends that keep me sane. My friends know that I'm obtuse and they don't judge nor do they seem to care. I owe a lot to them. They give me that sip of water I need from time to time.

A tribute to mom

A old lady with a cracked voiced used all her empathic energy to state:
"It's a mother's duty... to live... for the life... of their child!"
Simon and Garfunkel, "voices of old people"

I know mothers look at the world from a different vantage point then men. So I can't fully grasp the concept of motherhood. But I look at my own mom and all the things she has done- bookkeeping, accounting, floral work, painting, and probably a hundred others I don't even know about. I see all of those accomplishments and all I can think about is how she handled her role as a mother. She has been far-reaching in all aspects of support, and her supply of concern and compassion seem endless.

Thanks mom! I hope you have an enjoyable birthday!

Today's poem

The Asian Elephant with skinny legs
parades up and down my street
spread out like liquid of broken eggs
a bloodied puff of meat

The cheeta with a cotton tail
preys upon the sight
all mothers with their children wail
they know the season's right

The bitter snow of yellow green
is blowing from the west
a tattered boy now paints the scene
across the willow's chest

No light of bluish red
is filtered through the sky
No more words need be said
I wait my turn to die